Chapter Text
Hot topic had rules.
Well, all Hot topics had rules, of course. Although George tried to argue that things like “don’t steal” were laws, not rules, and was kind of an ass about it until Raven threatened to sock him in the mouth if he didn’t shut up. Probably other places had rules that weren’t the big ones, though, they all agreed.
(People threatened to sock George in the mouth a lot. Nobody had ever done it. No Physical Violence was a pretty serious rule, after all- not even a “get kicked out” rule, but a “call your parents and maybe the cops” rule. Still, it usually made him go back to his next audition monologue or flawless lab report with only a bit of grumbling.)
Everyone knew the rules. They were posted on the breakroom wall, next to the fridge- nobody was supposed to go back there besides employees, but since there were only two of those, no-one ever got ratted out to whatever mall monarchs enforced such things. As such, the sheet of ordinary notebook paper with meticulously neat handwriting was seen daily by anyone in search of Mountain Dew or doughnuts.
Shop Rules
- No physical violence.
- No theft. Layaways will be considered with reasonable terms.
- All grade incentives will be awarded only with proof of aforesaid grades.
- PA music control to be granted in half-hour increments.
- No alcohol or other mind-altering substances, legal or otherwise.
- Clothing being stored here must be correctly labeled with owner, date left, and degree of secrecy. Management not responsible for items left longer than one (1) school semester.
- Management will not provide cover for any illegal activities.
- Abide by stated names and other identity markers at all times.
- Bigotry of any sort will not be tolerated.
- Do not ask about the accident. Management has already stated that it was a motorcycle crash and will not be giving further information.
Number ten was universally acknowledged to be the hardest, by the store regulars. They all wanted to ask about the accident, and a few had tried. But the response never varied, so uniform that the store manager didn’t even look up from his book when asked.
The first time, it would be, “I was in a motorcycle crash, a long time ago.”
The second time, simply, “Rule ten.”
There was not usually a third time. Curiosity was one thing; having a place to hang out after school where nobody called you a freak or worried about you going all Columbine because you wore a Ruby Gloom shirt was another. And the thing about Adam was, he meant what he said, every time. He may have been nice, and surprisingly cool for an adult, but testing the rules usually meant finding out just how serious they were.
Nobody gathered around the scuffed and scratched breakroom table in June of 2008 had actually seen it, but Todd’s friend Jake who graduated last year said he’d actually been there when Adam busted a kid with some Jack Daniels in a Powerade bottle. There had been no shouting or ranting or anything normal adults would do. Adam had just looked stern for a moment, then gone in the back and made a phone call. The kid’s dad showed up a few minutes later, considerably angrier, dragged him home, and he never came back again. He had tried to, once. Only once. Adam had come out and said something to him none of them could hear, standing by the door, and he turned around and left.
“Oh come on,” Octavia said when Todd told the story in a hushed voice. “That sounds like part of a book or something. A guy who brought liquor into a mall just walked out because somebody talked to him? Please.”
Glancing over at Adam, though, she’d mentally admitted that she could believe it. He wasn’t the kind of man who invited argument.
Adam didn’t look like he should be managing a Hot topic. He looked like he should be on their merchandise.
None of them were sure of his exact height, though popular speculation ranged from seven feet to seven and a half. Regardless, “towering” was the only verb that could describe the man when he stood up, and “gangly” the most accurate adjective. His long, white-streaked brown hair- he claimed it wasn’t dyed, and the group was split perfectly in half on whether or not he was lying -was generally pulled back from his face in a ponytail, showing off dramatic bone structure and dark, deep-set eyes. Everything about him seemed to be big, and though he never displayed any unusual physical prowess, there was a vague sense that angering him would nonetheless be a very, very bad idea.
He usually wore black nail polish. Black eyeliner, too, if someone had gotten good enough grades to win the coveted makeover privileges.
(Those had rules of their own. Nothing permanent. No hair dye. No use of waterproof any thing to draw on the eyebrows he lacked for some unknown reason. Anything else, however, was fair game, and he always asked questions about the artistic vision behind the look as he sat almost impossibly still in his desk chair.)
What kind of motorcycle accident could leave someone quite literally covered in scars, with a bluish tinge to parts of their skin, he had never clarified. And never would. But many parents loved that particular story, details or no, and more than one regular had left in the evening to the tune of “See what happens when you get mixed up with those death machines?”
That looking like Adam might have been even more motorcycle-related incentive, none of those parents seemed to realize.
So rules there were, and rules the regulars- who had no more name for their informal group than that -would obey. There wasn’t anywhere else cool to be after school anyway; getting banned would royally suck. Especially when MCR had a new album coming out, and it always sounded better over store speakers.
On this particular day, Raven was browsing a sale rack of Corpse Bride bedsheets, Jonathan had his nose buried in a manga on the bench next to the changing rooms, and George was arguing with Justine. Again.
“I’m telling you, it is!”
“I’m telling you it isn’t.”
“Look, the scene is in there,” he said, rolling his eyes. “Either you’ve read the book or you haven’t.”
Justine’s bright purple lips twisted. “We’re reading it for English class right now, idiot. Heathcliff doesn’t dance with her corpse on a beach. He just digs it up. There aren’t even any beaches in that part of England.”
“I definitely read it somewhere,” he shot back. Pausing to toss dark curls out of his eyes with a sharp jerk of his head, he added, “Maybe you just weren’t paying attention.”
“I’m acing that class,” she said flatly. “You were doodling in your notebook like the whole time yesterday.”
“Mrs. Pierce should, like, try being interesting, like,” he replied with a sneer.
“Filler words are a normal part of most languages, so like, get the fuck over yourself.”
George stopped balancing his chair on its back legs, letting it fall forward with a clatter. He glared over his shoulder at the large figure behind the counter.
“Adam! Justine’s being obtuse!”
“She’s right,” came the calm response. “That scene is nowhere in Wuthering Heights.”
“But you’re an adult!” George spluttered. “Are you really going to let her talk to me like that?”
Adam set his ledger aside and rubbed the bridge of his nose. “It’s not my concern how you talk to each other, unless someone is being bullied. This isn’t a daycare and you are not infants. If you want a babysitter, you are more than welcome to go back to afterschool care.”
George deflated slightly. “Well-”
“She’s right. You’re wrong. Accept it gracefully and move on.”
Slouching in one’s folding chair and mumbling something indistinct while picking at loose threads on one’s hoodie wasn’t the usual definition of “graceful,” but Justine seemed satisfied. She opened the plastic compact nearly forgotten in one hand and resumed teasing the mohawk she’d been perfecting for the previous half hour, and that seemed to be the end of that.
There was a flurry of movement by the sale rack and Raven started for the door, long black skirt rustling behind her. Her eyes lit up, and she paused only to grab her backpack from its usual dumping-spot next to the CD section.
“Guys! Miss Thea’s in!”
Jonathan immediately leapt up. “Wait, really? How can you tell?”
“Look!”
Following her finger to the store window across the wide hallway, he stood on tiptoe to peer around the book-laden tables behind the glass. Finally, a flash of auburn hair and what appeared to be a fuzzy blue sweater caught his eye.
“Oh, sweet!” He, too, began hastily preparing to leave: shoving the well-worn volume of Bleach in his messenger bag, tying a discarded black leather jacket around his waist, and feeling in his pocket lest iPod, phone, or wallet had fallen out.
Adam raised the part of his face where his eyebrows were not. “Something new come out?”
“No,” Jonathan replied, trying unsuccessfully to untangle the chains looped over his pant legs while making a beeline for the door, “but she has more of Black Butler and the other manager never lets us read it there.”
“Ah. Yes. Very rude of a shopkeeper to want their customers to buy anything.” The statement was so mild that it might have been entirely serious.
Raven blinked at him. “Was that sarcasm?”
“Me? Sarcastic?” He typed something on the computer and shot her a look around the edge of the screen. “Perish the thought.”
She chuckled a bit, then grabbed her friend’s arm. “Right. Never. See you, Adam! Bye Justine!”
George looked up. “Um, I’m here too,”
“Yeah, unfortunately.” His indignant response was lost in the sound of feet pounding across the floor, out the door, and around several potted artificial palms and stroller-pushing parents outside.
As they flew under the Waldenbooks sign and into the brightly-lit literary paradise beyond, the young woman behind the counter looked up through the glass. Her brown eyes searched the black-and-red gloom of the Hot topic, and finally met Adam’s.
I just clocked in! she mouthed exaggeratedly, jerking her head at the two teenagers making a beeline for her.
He smiled and shrugged, laughing softly as she dramatically cast her eyes upwards and mimed praying for deliverance. After giving him an answering grin, she turned to the two probably-not-customers, said something, and gestured towards the back of the store.
They charged off, and George and Justine exchanged a glance when Adam returned to his accounts.
Hot topic had another rule. Rule Eleven, they called it, like Rule Thirty-Four except not gross. Not to be discussed whenever their benefactor was around, either, lest he figure out what it was. But known to all who congregated there, and discussed in whispers when they gathered elsewhere. It was less a rule of behavior and more a law of the universe, and for once not even George would try to argue the difference. It was not just a rule, but a goal, to be strategized and striven for. Something that, someday, they would Do Something About if it was their last action on earth.
Rule Eleven: Adam and Miss Thea are totally in love.